January 1st, Sea Circle Calendar Year 1493.
Admiral Sengoku was absolutely livid.
"What the hell happened!?"
"All the ammunition stockpiled at the abandoned D1 harbor—gone!?"
Inside the admiral's office, Sengoku roared at the messenger, spittle flying as he bellowed.
He was beside himself with frustration.
Ever since Dragon's "defection," Marine Headquarters had seen their budget slashed by the World Government. On top of that, scrubbing all traces of Dragon's past and dealing with the political fallout had left Sengoku, as an admiral, battered from every side.
The Fleet Admiral's seat—so close he could taste it—had slipped away just like that. And he'd had to bite his tongue and comfort Garp, that infuriating old man.
But who the hell was going to comfort him?
The D1 harbor might have been abandoned, and its ammunition stockpile small, but at a time —every last bullet counted.
So the second this news reached his ears, Sengoku was ready to explode.
"Admiral Sengoku..." the messenger stammered, trying to keep his voice steady as he watched Sengoku's face darken even further.
"We checked, and the ammo wasn't stolen—it was detonated."
"Detonated?" Sengoku's brows shot up.
The young messenger swallowed, trying not to flinch at the rising fury in Sengoku's tone.
"Last night... someone saw fireworks over D1 harbor."
"Many civilians thought it was some kind of New Year's celebration organized by Headquarters..."
Sengoku ground his teeth so hard he thought they might crack.
The veins on his forehead stood out in sharp relief, pulsing with barely restrained rage. The messenger, eyes wide, blurted out quickly:
"Early this morning, a soldier reported that Commodore Rogers Darren admitted to using that stockpile."
Sengoku's eyes widened in shock, then his face went red with fury.
"That damned brat! Has he lost his mind!?"
"That was good ammunition, and he used it for fireworks!?"
"Does he think this is his private North Blue!?"
His rant was cut off as he noticed something in the messenger's hand.
"Hold on... what's that?"
The trembling messenger held out an envelope.
It was already open, and inside was a banknote.
One of the world's many banks—this one under the World Government's direct control. A note of credit.
"Commodore Darren said he used the ammo to please his beloved. He's willing to compensate for every last expense... and offers his sincerest apologies for any inconvenience caused."
The messenger bowed deeply, holding out the note.
Sengoku's eyes fell on the endless string of zeros written there. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally accepted the envelope in silence.
For a moment, all his anger seemed to drain away.
He coughed lightly and cleared his throat, the iron fury in his voice replaced by calm authority:
"Very well. Let it go this time. After all... love is important."
"Tell that reckless boy not to make such a scene again."
"Yes, Admiral Sengoku," the messenger said quickly, bowing again, not daring to meet Sengoku's eyes.
Sengoku's expression shifted.
"Oh—Darren should be back at the training camp today, shouldn't he?"
The messenger nodded.
"No, sir. Early this morning, Vice Admiral Garp sent someone to summon him."
Sengoku paused, then waved a hand dismissively.
"Alright. You may go."
The messenger bowed one last time and hurried out, his hand slipping into his pocket to check the roll of bills he'd been given—a little "thank you" for his trouble.
As the door closed behind him, Sengoku stood silent for a long moment. Finally, he pulled out the note again.
He let out a low, exasperated curse.
"That spendthrift brat... blowing two hundred million berries on fireworks!"
Darren was nervous as hell.
He stood at the edge of the same abandoned harbor where he'd put on that "fireworks show" the night before, facing the thunderous, storm-like presence of Vice Admiral Garp.
Every muscle in his body was on edge.
Was Garp here to chew him out for laying a beating on Dragon?
Or... had word of his relationship with Gion finally reached the old man, and now Garp was here to "settle accounts"?
As his thoughts spun in frantic circles, the towering figure of Garp took a single step forward, closing the distance without a word.
Heavy footfalls. Clenched fists. That oppressive aura—like a mountain ready to crush him flat.
Darren's throat bobbed as he forced out a nervous laugh.
"Uh... Vice Admiral Garp, sir... what can I do for you?"
"I swear, I didn't do anything. Everything I've done was under Admiral Sengoku's orders, so if there's a problem—"
He backpedaled instinctively, every survival instinct in his body screaming at him to get away.
Normally, he wouldn't have flinched from anyone.
The man who stood at the absolute pinnacle of the Marines' fighting strength.
And on top of everything else, his own son had just defected. Garp had to be fuming inside, probably dying to let off some steam.
Most terrifying of all, Garp was the one Marine who didn't give a damn about rules or politics.
And Darren? After last night, his back and hips were already aching enough—he wasn't sure he could take a pounding on top of that.
He tried to edge away further, only to find his back pressed up against something hard.
It was a massive, twenty-meter-tall battleship, abandoned and rusting in the harbor.
And in that same moment, he felt it—a crushing, suffocating pressure from straight ahead.
His heart slammed against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears.
His body coiled tight, instinctively snapping into fighting stance.
But when he looked up—
A single, ordinary-looking fist was swelling in his vision, growing larger and larger in the reflection of his widening pupils.
Darren's eyes narrowed to pinpricks.
He couldn't even describe it.
No Haki. No elemental force. No wind, no fire—hell, it wasn't even particularly fast.
Darren felt something that was almost like despair.
He couldn't block it. He couldn't dodge it.
He just had to watch it coming.
The fist brushed past his hair, and—
A muffled thud. Nothing more.
Like a child halfheartedly knocking on a wall with a toy stick.
And in the next breath—
The battleship behind him exploded in a tidal wave of splintered wood and shattered iron, the shockwave tearing across the ground like a living thing, obliterating everything in its path—gun emplacements, fortifications, all of it gone in a heartbeat.
Darren swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow.
"V-Vice Admiral Garp—"
Before he could stammer out another word, Garp lifted his head.
"Want to learn? I'll teach you."